


Before They Knew They Had Begun

by Epicharis



Series: Before They Knew They Had Begun [1]
Category: The 100
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, pride and prejudice au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-30 21:30:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15760071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epicharis/pseuds/Epicharis
Summary: After the death of her father and with no male heir, Clarke Griffin's family home is sold by a distant cousin to the scandalous Blake siblings - the ladies' man Mr Bellamy Blake and his illegitimate sister, Miss Octavia Blake. Embittered by loss of all kinds, this slight to her family pride and coping with the mounting pressure to marry, Clarke embarks on a journey of animosity with the initially charming Mr Blake - until the two realise that they may be more useful to each other than they originally thought.





	1. Chapter One

The Phoenix Estate had been in the Griffin family for generations. The house was huge, made for a large family and their attendants, and the substantial gardens fell into a state of organised unruliness that Clarke Griffin had always admired, and which looked so alive that they were almost impossible to capture in pencil. She studied one of the roses next to her, then turned her attention back to her sketchbook. She started to shade one of the leaves, until she found herself disrupted by the sound of her mother’s voice calling for her.  
“Clarke, the new owner will be arriving before the hour. Please make yourself presentable – that state of undress is completely inappropriate.”  
By ‘state of undress’, Clarke’s mother meant the loose, white dress that Clarke wore around the house and was currently covered in grass stains from trying to do cartwheels with Raven earlier that morning. Clarke scrambled to her feet, tucking her pencils into the pages.  
She entered the house through the conservatory, the room warm from the sun beating through the glass and humid from the watered plants. She spotted her mother in the hall, looking up at a portrait of the Griffin family that had been painted when Clarke was eight years old, her expression almost unreadable. Her parents, though not smiling in the image, looked happy. Her mother’s face had changed since then: Abigail Griffin’s face was now marked with grief and a granite resilience – but now, looking up at the canvas, her face was softer. Clarke watched her for a few seconds, then moved forward to try and join her. Before Clarke reached her, her mother had already turned around and left the moment behind her.  
“There’s a dress laid out in your room.” Abigail said, smiling briskly as she walked past Clarke, offering her daughter a tight but brief squeeze of the shoulder as she passed. Clarke pursed her lips slightly and nodded, looking down into her hands. With an ache of mourning, both of her father and the memory of her mother’s understanding, she walked up the stairs.

In truth, Clarke’s relationship with her mother had been strained since the death of her father. Jacob had been a warm, kind man, who often lightened Abigail’s moods. He provided levity wherever he had gone. His absence was keenly felt by all in the community, and life had offered the Griffins another blow: under property laws, and the lack of a male heir, the estate had reverted to one of his cousins, under laws of ownership. Clarke had never felt more distant from her mother. In a sense, it had felt like she had lost them both at once: her mother keeping her at arm’s length, for whatever reason that might be, felt imprisoning. Now her childhood home was no longer hers, too. The buyer, whom she knew little of except that he was currently residing in London, had allowed them to live in the house for the last month. They were to have vacated the premises by the end of the week – by which time Abigail would have married Mr Kane. He was kind, and her mother had known him for a while. He had never taken a wife, instead devoting himself to his work, and he had reached out instead of seeing the Griffins fall into complete destitution.  
Clarke sat down at her dressing table, brushing her hair slowly before pinning half of it up. As she secured the last pin in place there was a knock on the bedroom door.  
“Come in,” she called, turning around in the chair to see who it was. The door opened with a creak and one of the maids, Sarah, poked her head through.  
“Mr Blake has arrived, Miss Griffin. Your mother has requested your presence.”  
“Thank you, Sarah. I’ll be down right away.”  
The girl nodded and dipped back out. Clarke looked back into the mirror once more, inspecting the girl reflected back at her, before standing up and leaving her bedroom.

Looking back, Clarke wouldn’t be able to say what she had noticed first about Mr Blake as he stood abruptly upon her entrance into the room. Perhaps it was his height, almost a head taller than herself, or his tanned skin covered in freckles. He was, undeniably, incredibly handsome. How frustrating.  
“Mr Blake, this is my daughter Clarke,” Abby introduced, standing up as well and walking to Clarke’s side.  
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Blake,” Clarke said, glancing in confusion at her mother's sudden proximity.  
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Griffin,” Mr Blake replied.  
“Mr Blake will be living here with his sister,” Abigail informed her, and Clarke nodded politely, still unsure why her mother was telling this until her mother murmured, low enough that only Clarke could hear, “He’s unmarried.”  
“Oh,” was all Clarke could manage.  
“Mr Blake, please allow Clarke to give you a tour of the grounds. I’m sure you’ll find them quite extensive.” Abigail gave Clarke a pointed look, and Clarke fought the urge to scowl at her.  
“I would be delighted to accompany her,” he said smoothly, and Abigail smiled.  
“Perfect.”

The tour was, largely, done in near silence – aside from Clarke occasionally pointing things out and reeling off a few facts about the family member who had planted that tree, or placed that birdbath. Sometimes she threw in the odd lie, just to keep things interesting. Mr Blake, to his benefit, seemed interested in the history of the gardens. That irritated her more.  
"The grounds are very beautiful," said Mr Blake, reaching for a rose as they walked past the bush and breaking an at least five-minute silence. Even the small act of his fingers tracing against the leaves irked her. “My sister finds herself drawn to the outdoors. It will provide much for her to do in terms of landscaping.”  
"My father planted those roses for my mother on their first anniversary. He intended them to stay forever." Clarke said, her voice sharp.  
"Then stay forever they will," Mr Blake replied easily, either ignoring her tone or not noticing it as he moved past the rose bush.  
Clarke watched his back as he stepped forward. She resented the feeling that he was doing her a favour by leaving the roses. She resented herself even more for the rush of relief that had swept through her when he promised her he would keep them. She couldn’t have explained what drove her to say, as though she didn't care:  
"By all means, cut them down. They are your roses now, do with them what you wish. If you were to leave the house as it should be, then I would also be a permanent fixture."  
"Would that be such a terrible thing, Miss Griffin?" He asked, turning back to look at her with a flame of mischief glinting in his eye and that burned into her. She wanted desperately to dislike him, to find him so loathsome that he would be easy to package into a box. Instead he was inconveniently multi-faceted and impossible to parcel up one way or another.  
"Propriety commands that I fall silent rather than cause offence, Mr Blake," Clarke responded drily, and his mouth quirked in what was almost a smile as he turned forwards once more and continued on their path.  
"Offence is good for the spirit. It makes one more resilient, and less self-important."  
"Then I will offend you at every opportunity, Mr Blake, for it seems that any offence you have encountered previously has been thoroughly unsuccessful in one of those regards."  
Mr Blake nodded solemnly. "I admit, it is true. My lack of resilience is known throughout the county. Just look at how I spoil my sister."  
Clarke let out a brief but treacherous laugh, and Mr Blake smiled again, this time looking surprised.  
“I regret,” he began, looking across at her as they walked, “that I must return to my current lodgings. I have business to attend to in town that I must see to before the day ends.”  
“Of course,” she replied, and they completed the short walk back to the house in silence. Clarke led him in through the conservatory, where they were met by Sarah the maid.  
“Sarah can escort you out. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Clarke curtseyed, and he bowed in response. As he straightened, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope.  
“An invitation,” he said, extending it to her, “to a ball I intend to host here, two weeks hence. I wished to deliver it personally.”  
“How kind,” Clarke said, staring at the invitation in somewhat dumbfounded horror as the reality of losing her childhood home truly set in. After a few seconds too long, she reached out her hand to take it. He pressed it into her palm, careful not to touch her skin.  
“A pleasure to meet you, also, Miss Griffin,” he smiled – while Clarke seethed, looking down at the invitation in her hand. He bowed once more, then made his leave with Sarah accompanying him. Clarke was left alone, the stark reminder of loss facing her in her own hand.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the celebration of Marcus Kane's wedding to Abigail Griffin, Clarke runs into Mr Blake once more.

The wedding of Marcus Kane and Abigail Griffin was a quiet affair, attended by few. The celebration was another matter: as the member of Parliament for the constituency, Mr Kane had many friends who he had wanted to invite. This included the Right Honourable Thelonius Jaha, though his son Wellesley (affectionately known by Clarke, to whom he was almost like a brother, as Wells) was unable to return from Trinity College in Cambridge for the occasion. Raven was able to attend, and it was with her that Clarke stood while they watched the dancing.

                “This reminds me of the events I attended in London,” Clarke said wistfully, thinking back to the busy streets, the thriving museums and stocked libraries that she had spent so much time in when she had lived there for school a few years ago. It wasn’t common for girls to go away to school, but both Clarke and Raven had been insistent – though Raven had been sent to a boarding school an hour’s carriage ride away that was just as rural as their little town in Hertfordshire.

                “Do you miss it?” Raven asked, and Clarke glanced across at her and smiled ruefully.

                “Occasionally, yes. There’s so much knowledge, so many types of people…”

                “Ah, you miss _all_ the people. Not just one?” Raven replied teasingly, and Clarke smiled. Raven Reyes, her best friend, was the only person who knew of Clarke’s brief, clandestine relationship with Alexandra Woodham, an American girl living in London. Lexa had moved to Washington D.C. with her parents when Thomas Jefferson was elected, her father being a friend of the President who had requested his service. Equally, Clarke was the only one who knew that Raven had lost her virginity to Mr Finn Collins while they had been courting. It was something that could have ruined her life, had she been taken with child, for he had no intention of marrying her – and even now it could ruin her reputation. Raven had kept it from Mr Ezekiel Shaw, who she was currently courting. Clarke had not approved of Mr Collins, though Mr Shaw had her most sincere support. He was intelligent, a working-class man of self-made riches after achieving a scholarship to study at Pembroke College in Oxford.

                “Whoever is Mr Jordan talking to?” Raven changed the subject, and Clarke looked over to where their friend was standing – and where Mr Blake stood with him. He seemed to feel their eyes on him and caught Clarke’s gaze. He bowed slightly to her, and she dipped a slight curtsey in return. Raven immediately turned and looked at her.

                “He’s handsome,” she said pointedly.

                “I find his head to be too large,” Clarke replied, sipping from her wine.

                “I can’t say I make the same observation. In what sense is it too large?”

                “It’s in more of a… metaphysical sense.” Clarke drank again, trying to avoid eye contact with Raven, who was smirking.

                “I didn’t realise we were supposed to be paying heed to the metaphysical size of potential suitor’s heads.”

                “Only if those heads are exceptionally large.”

                “You’ve spoken to him then?”

                “Briefly. That’s Mr Blake, the man who bought my home. He came to view the house two days ago. After he left my mother told me all about his huge inheritance from his father, and his £15,000 a year salary. Apparently, the amount of land he owns throughout the country is the equivalent to half of Hertfordshire. I imagine all this is information he told my mother immediately upon meeting her.”

                “Ah,” Raven said, glancing back over at him. Clarke refused to look. “And in the brief conversation that _you_ had with him, not your mother, you think you accurately judged his metaphysical features.”

                “Well, not all of them. Most of our conversation was about gardening.”

                “How fascinating. I suppose it’s convenient that you’ll be able to have another attempt at discerning his metaphysical characteristics.”

                “What do you mean?” Clarke asked, suddenly alarmed.

                “He’s coming over,” Raven replied, nodding in his direction. Clarke looked across quickly, then back at her friend. Raven was right, he was slowly approaching, carefully making his way through the crowd.

                “Don’t leave,” Clarke said, grabbing onto Raven’s arm.

                “Sorry, I can’t hear you over the music,” Raven replied as the musicians came to the end of the current song. Clarke scowled.

                “Raven-”

                “I think I see Mr Murphy waving at me-”

                “No, you don’t-”

                “We can talk later!”

                “Raven-”

                “Miss Griffin.”

                “Mr Blake!” Clarke exclaimed, jumping slightly. She gritted her teeth as she curtseyed, and as she rose saw Raven wave at her coyly from across the room where she stood with Mr Murphy.

                “I was wondering if, later, I might dance with you. If you would be willing.”

                “It would be my pleasure,” Clarke replied, unable to think of a reason as to why not. He didn’t smile but dipped his head to her. She curtseyed once more. Goodness, socialising with gentlemen was exhausting.

                Once he left, Raven returned.

                “I thoroughly dislike you.”

                “Nonsense,” Raven replied, rightfully dismissing the statement out of hand. “In any case, I was helping you. I just learned a great deal about your friend Mr Blake.”

                “He is not my friend in any sense of the word.”

                “Of course. Well, it seems that he has become very familiar with women in the area in his time here. Not only has he been seen stepping out with Georgina Martin, but he has also been in contact with women from London, apparently named Echo and Roma. Suddenly Ravenna isn’t as unusual.” 

                “I like your name,” Clarke replied absently. “So what is your claim?”

                “My claim is that Mr Blake is, allegedly, a scoundrel. His younger sister too. She's a half-sister, and illegitimate. She eloped with her now-husband at the age of 16. He’s an artist.”

                “I think anyone attempting a career in artistry must be very brave,” Clarke responded.

                “I agree. I don’t think, personally, that either of the Blake siblings are particularly outrageous, especially compared to what we have done. Not that that will ever become public knowledge.”

Clarke nodded thoughtfully, then said: “Mr Murphy told you all of this?”

                “No, of course not. It was a girl who was standing near us. She saw me leave you and saw him approach. I don’t know her name. She couldn’t seem to stop talking, in truth. I’ve never seen a tongue move so fast. Neither Mr Murphy nor I got a word in.”

                “My mother would never approve of him,” Clarke said, looking across at her mother. Maybe once her mother would have been warm and open to any kind of love that Clarke found – not that Clarke loved Mr Blake, why was that even a thought? – but the death of Clarke’s father left her tight and wound up, wanting things to work out perfectly. Being linked to a scoundrel, no matter how large his salary, could hurt the already damaged reputation of the Griffin family after the loss of their home. She couldn’t do that to her mother.

                “I’m sure your mother wouldn't care about-”

                “I’ll speak to you later. Sorry. I have to do something,” Clarke said, smiling apologetically at Raven. Her friend nodded, though looked confused.

                Clarke gathered her skirts and headed in the direction that she had seen Mr Blake take, walking out of the hall where the main gathering was being held and into a corridor where she walked straight into his chest.

                “Miss Griffin,” he said, sounding awkward. He cradled her bare elbow with his large hand, steadying her as she regained her composure. She looked up at him, suddenly aware of the warmth of his fingers on her skin and their proximity. There was a pregnant pause as they looked at one another. It could have only been two seconds before she stepped back, suddenly becoming aware of who she was, and who he was, and where they were.

                “Excuse me, Miss Griffin, for my impoliteness. I should not have – I shouldn’t… It was an accident.”

                “It is forgotten,” Clarke lied. She knew she couldn’t forget the flip her stomach had done when he had looked at her, the feeling of his fingers… “I was just looking for you, actually.”

                “Oh?” He smiled slightly, and Clarke sucked in her breath. She wanted to dance with him. She wanted to spend all evening with him, she wanted to talk to him about living in London. She didn’t care about what Raven had heard about him. But she cared about her mother, and she cared about damaging the Griffin name – her father’s name – more than it already was.

                “I’m afraid I can’t dance with you.”

                “Oh,” he said again, sounding disappointed. “Maybe next time. I still intend to throw a ball after all.”

                “I can’t ever dance with you,” she responded.

                “Not even one?” He questioned. Clarke shook her head. _It would never be only one dance_ , her heart whispered. Her head forced the lamentation away. Now was not the time for sentimentality.

                “May I ask why?” He asked, and Clarke had a quick intake of breath. She had to deal with this quickly. It was the easiest way.

                “It was brought to my attention earlier this evening that you have partaken in some… ungentlemanly activities.”

He let out a quiet laugh, looking at the ground. “I see.”

Even this reaction, though he did not seem offended, was almost too much for Clarke to bear.

                “And the circumstances around your sister’s marriage are undesirable, in terms of reputation.”

He suddenly stiffened. He looked up slowly, his eyes focusing on her coldly, and she felt instant regret. Yet it had to be done.

                “Of course." He said, his voice clipped. "I would hate for my sister’s ‘undesirable’ behaviour to impact your reputation in any manner, Miss Griffin. How brave of you to put a stop to my family name tarnishing yours. I truly commend you.”

                “Mr Blake-”

                “I bid you good night, Miss Griffin. _Propriety_ commands that I depart rather than cause offence, a deed you once thought worth avoiding.”

His comment stung, a reference back to the light banter they had shared in the garden. Clarke didn’t reply. She thought she saw him hesitate, waiting for her to say something. She didn’t. He turned and walked back into the busy hall, leaving Clarke alone in the corridor. She pressed a hand to her stomach, looking up at the ceiling as she tried to stop herself going after him and apologising. Sighing, she picked up her skirts and walked up the stairs. She didn’t feel comfortable enough yet in Mr Kane’s house to take refuge in the room he had given her, so she sat down on one of the stairs and slowly began to unpin her hair from the constrictive bun that it had been placed in. She had just about finished piling the pins in her lap, her hair in loose golden waves around her shoulders when she heard Mr Blake’s voice in the corridor below.

“... can’t possibly find her that detestable.” Mr Jordan was finishing.

“I do." Mr Blake countered. "Miss Griffin has an air of grandeur that is thoroughly undeserved and a degree of self-righteousness that would make it impossible to ever hold her in high regard. I’m yet to be provided with any evidence to the contrary.”

“She can be an acquired taste,” Mr Jordan replied carefully. Clarke rested her head on the baluster of the staircase, listening intently to the conversation occurring below her.

“I have no intention of acquiring anything from her,” Mr Blake replied, and as Clarke looked down she saw him pull on a coat. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Jordan. I hope to see you at the ball at the Phoenix Estate.”

“Of course.” Mr Jordan replied. Clarke stayed silent as the men said their goodbyes. Mr Blake left the house, while Mr Jordan returned to the hall. Clarke didn’t know how long she had been sitting on the stairs by the time Raven came looking for her.

“Clarke?”

“I’m up here,” Clarke replied, and Raven walked to the bottom of the stairs. She started to ascend slowly, lifting her skirts and sitting herself down next to Clarke.

“You disappeared,” Raven said gently, and Clarke nodded.

“I came to speak to Mr Blake.”

“How was that?” Raven asked eagerly, smiling at her encouragingly.

“Atrocious,” Clarke replied bluntly.

“Oh,” Raven replied, clearly surprised.

"His good manners are as fleeting as perfume on a handkerchief." Clarke said dismissively, her bitterness consuming her. She knew it was her fault that his favour had turned so abruptly. She had insulted him, and his family. Still, what she had heard him say about her had hurt. 

"An expensive handkerchief." Raven muttered, and Clarke shot her a look. She didn’t care about money, Raven knew that. That was all her mother’s concern.

“I could never be interested in a man with such bad grace,” she murmured, and Raven looked at her intently, then nodded.

“I understand,” Raven said, and Clarke nodded as well.

 

With any luck, that would be the last Clarke had to see of Mr Blake. Yet, recently, luck had not been favouring Clarke Griffin.


End file.
